Jealous Guy
by teh liz
Summary: Strangely enough, it's not Benny that Roger's the most jealous of.


**Author's Notes:** I started this one during finals. I saw a songfic challenge on the rogermimi community at LiveJournal, and had to do it to this song. Even though I am A) not on time and b) surpassed the word limit by a lot, I had to show it off. Songfic to "Jealous Guy" by Paul McCartney and John Lennon. "Without You"-ish timeline. You might recognize the first and last scene from the movie. :) Many thanks to my friend Court for giving it a read over when I wasn't sure if I was pulling it off emotionally, and dedicated to my friend Haley because she was looking for good Roger/Mimi fic and she kicks ass at being a mod.  
**Disclaimer:** Hey, I still don't own it. On to fic!

Mimi was perched on the edge of the bed, her mind racing with the urgency of another hit. Carefully, so as not to waste a precious drop of the heroin, she poured the heated powder into a syringe and tapped the glass with her finger to release any trapped air. Oh yes, she had done this many times. She might as well be a professional, a nurse or something. Nurses prepared syringes a lot, right? Abandoning her thoughts further, she put the syringe carefully on the table and placed the heavy rubber band she kept for the occasion on her upper arm.

Like she tapped the syringe, she tapped the inside of her arm and waiting for a vein to appear. She put her full concentration into keeping her arm steady, both of them. She tapped, harder and harder for a good few minutes, nothing was coming up. "_Damn_ you," she hissed at her veins, all it took was one to show up and she could have her release. One finally appears and she eagerly snatches the syringe from the table like a snake striking its prey.

She was so wrapped up in her task, she hadn't heard the door open, and she hadn't heard Roger approach. She felt him rather than saw him, and looked up. There he was, looking down at her through the beaded hanging at the end of her bed. There was no anger in his hazel eyes, and if there had been, she wouldn't have noticed for all of the disappointment in them. They locked gazes for a moment and she tried to find a way to say "This isn't what it looks like" without it being such a blatant lie. In the end, she says nothing, frozen with her arm resting on her leg and syringe of fresh heroin still in her hand.

He smelled it before he even entered the apartment, the sickening, acrid scent of cooking heroin. It was a scent that made something in his blood jump, and a part of him that wanted it. He pushed it down and now he was staring at Mimi, her brown eyes filled with guilt and want, a look he recognized well enough. His stomach turned, and he waited for an explanation, because there had to be one. There had to be a really good one, because she'd said she was going to quit, and he was going to help her.

When no explanation came, he turned away and pushed away the anger that was rising in his gut. He couldn't feel anything towards her right now, he couldn't. He grabbed his guitar that sat on the table. He concentrated on the scratched but well-loved surface and said, "I'm going upstairs tonight."

She wanted to choke out _don't leave_, throw herself at his feet and beg him to stay with her – she'd never be able to kick the habit if it's just her and the darkness. He makes her strong – strong enough, anyway. She's glued to the bed, though, with the syringe of heroin stuck in her hand. He waited for a response and then strode out like demons were after him, and maybe they were. Hands shaking, she made her will stronger than her desire to placate her addiction and put the syringe back on the table before curling into a ball on the far corner of the bed.

_I was dreaming of the past  
And my heart was beating fast  
I began to lose control  
I began to lose control  
I didn't mean to hurt you  
I'm sorry that I made you cry  
Oh no, I didn't want to hurt you  
I'm just a jealous guy_

Mark was watching the film he'd shot during the day when Roger slid the door open with an inhuman force and threw it shut again. "I don't want to talk about it," he snapped before Mark had a chance to even so much as raise an eyebrow.

"Didn't say a word," Mark said, understanding without another word being said. Only two things incited the wrath of Hurricane Roger these days: Mimi and Benny, or Mimi and smack. He didn't know which it was this time and it was unlikely he'd find out. They would just exist in companionable silence for a few hours until they both passed out from exhaustion, and then the cycle would continue.

Mark continued looking at the film, marking the frames for cutting, and Roger took his seat on the table. His playing was loud at first, agitated and restless as he himself was, and eventually calmed and became quieter. He hadn't stopped playing when he decided to ask Mark the question, vamping the same arpeggio repeatedly. "Mark, am I an idiot?"

The question catches Mark off guard, and he pauses for a minute. It doesn't sound like a question that there's a good answer to, like when Maureen asked if these pants made her look fat. You couldn't say that she didn't, which is what one would think she wanted to hear, because she would insist that you were flattering her. But you couldn't say that she did, because that was definitely what they did _not_ want to hear. This question would take careful maneuvering to get past. "No, you're not, you're just…"

"An idiot," Roger filled in with a chortle. "Yeah, thanks Mark."

"You're not an idiot, Roger," Mark insisted, floundering for the right word. "You're just…"

"Finish your fucking sentence, if you please," he said after a long pause.

"You have a bit of a blind spot where Mimi is concerned," he finally said. "She needs help, Roger."

"She'll be fine," Roger cut Mark off before he could say anymore. "She's fine and she'll be perfect. _I'm_ helping her, Mark."

Mark privately thought that as far as Roger had come since original diagnosis, he was still in no shape to help another human being through withdrawal. There had to be a better way of saying it, though, one that wouldn't stir up his anger again and cause him to leave. Mark didn't really mind the coming and going, honestly, it was when Roger left in anger, just like he used to, with no indication of when or if he was coming back. "She needs more than you, Rog."

"Well she's got more than me," he put in hurriedly. "She has all of us, and the people at Life Support, and – well, her mom helps her even though she doesn't know about the drugs-"

"Roger, will you listen to yourself?" Mark demanded, interrupting in a fashion that was not very Marklike. "She needs to go to rehab."

"Like any of us can afford it."

"We got money together for you to get clean, so what makes you think we won't get together money for her?"

"Stop it, Mark."

Mark's won the argument and he knew it. Roger has stopped trying to debate and moved to his other tactic of shutting the other person up. It was an empty victory, as all victories won when your opponent doesn't want to concede your point. "We will, you know." _He got it from his father,_ his mother had always said. _He wants the last word if he can have it._

"Mark, would you just shut your fucking mouth?" Roger snarled and put down his guitar, hard, on the table. It thudded hollowly and he left without looking back.

Just like he always had.

_I was feeling insecure  
You might not love me anymore  
I was shivering inside  
I was shivering inside  
I didn't mean to hurt you  
I'm sorry that i made you cry  
Oh no, i didn't want to hurt you  
I'm just a jealous guy_ /i

It has started to sprinkle rain between when Roger came home from a meeting with two of his former bandmates and when he left the building again. It wasn't a hard rain, just a gentle but persistent May shower that he barely felt land in his hair and drip down his face. He walked with abandon, more or less heedless of where he went. He did not dare settle in a bar or diner, where there was even the slimmest possibility that he would start something he couldn't finish – or worse, could finish. He lit a cigarette after a third try on lighting the lighter, and inhaled deeply. He exhaled shakily, wishing very much that _someone_ would understand.

He couldn't give up on Mimi, he wouldn't. A the same time, he couldn't be her father and keep an eye on everything she did at all times. He was her boyfriend. He was love, and support, and protection – when she would let him – not a micromanager. Micromanager. Where had he heard that word? Probably Benny.

The thought of Benny made a rush of anger surge through his blood like a tidal wave. Benny, the smack, all were signs of his failure to Mimi. He hated both, one had ruined his life, the other hadn't exactly been fantastic, and now both were back with a vengeance. He hated himself for being so jealous.

He hated them for giving him a reason to be.

It wouldn't be such a big deal if Benny wasn't a jerk about it, he told himself, and hoped he meant it. Mimi and Mark were friends, but he didn't worry about _Mimi and Mark._ But whenever he heard about Benny coming to see her at the Club, or even let his mind wander to it, he remembered New Year's Eve, and the glint in Benny's eye that made him wonder. Benny knew that Roger had a wicked jealous streak, and he knew exactly which buttons to press to set it off.

It didn't take much, he admitted to himself with a derisive snort.

Cigarette finished, he threw it to the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his shoe, pushing a hand through his hair. Looking up at the street sign, he saw that he'd made it down to fourth street without realizing it. He considered not going back tonight, that pride that kept him from believing Mimi when she said she and Benny were just friends and hurt when Benny gave him that look that never made him sure who was lying didn't allow him to go back to the loft or Mimi's apartment right that second.

_Go home,_ a voice in the back of his mind that he was used to ignoring said. _Mimi needs you tonight._

He swallowed. Maybe by the time he reached eleventh street again, he'd be ready to swallow his pride and face his girlfriend.

_I didn't mean to hurt you  
I'm sorry that I made you cry  
Oh no, I didn't want to hurt you  
I'm just a jealous guy_

"Mimi?"

He pushed her door closed behind him, waiting for an answer. There was none, and for a moment he panicked. He left, what if she went out to find some more heroin? It could happen, it certainly wasn't as if he'd never done it before. "Mimi?" he called again, peeling his jacket off and waited a bit longer. This time, a strangled cry answered him, from the bed. He moved with haste and the sight that met him was so disgustingly familiar and at the same time foreign.

Mimi was curled up in the corner of the bed where he'd left her, her caramel skin glistening with a cold sweat, and she shook uncontrollably. She was shivering the first time that he met her, but it wasn't anything like this. She was completely in control of the room the minute she stepped in, with her tiny skirt and big personality. She was supposed to command the attention of everyone she met with her grin and sassy demeanor. The girl on the bed was small and barely seemed to notice him when he crawled across the bed to her. "Mimi, sweetheart, wake up."

"_No,_" she said, rather emphatically for someone who did not look like she should care one way or another.

She burned at his touch. "I know you're feeling pretty fucking crappy," he said.

She laughed quietly, and the laughter became a soft cry. "It hurts everywhere, all over," she groaned, and then shuddered, trying to burrow deeper into the mattress.

He didn't know what to do for her. He couldn't remember what if anything relieved the ache that went all the way down to the bones. If they had any Tylenol or something, it would take him ages to find, and if she was feeling nauseous, there was always the possibility that she would never keep it down. "Hot or cold, babe?" he asked, bodily picking her up and moving to the beat up futon after figuring out how to do it with the least amount of jostling.

She trembled in his arms before he heard, "Cold."

He set her down and in mere seconds he yanked the quilt off the bed and wrapped it around her tightly. She rocked back and forth with her arms clenched around her legs, drawn up tightly to her chest, softly crying, a quaking, pained butterfly in a patchwork cocoon. After slight hesitation brought on by half a moment of self doubt, he fit his arms around her and rocked her gently. He felt her press her face into his neck, slick with cold sweat. Should he get a cold washcloth? No, she was already cold. Warm? He didn't know. The only thing he wanted in withdrawal was to be left the hell alone, but Mimi didn't seem to be putting up a fight. Unsure of what else to do, he let her stay there, murmuring nothing in particular to her, hoping it was comforting.

_I was trying to catch your eyes  
Thought that you was trying to hide  
I was swallowing my pain  
I was swallowing my pain_

A while later, Roger had no idea how long, Mimi's withdrawal symptoms had subsided enough for the time being for her to fall asleep. Carefully disentangling himself, he laid her down on her side. She only stirred a little, and then settled again into a sleep that seemed only slightly troubled. He stood with the same measure of carefulness, and wondered what exactly it was he was supposed to be doing now.

He walked slowly to the bed. He supposed he could sneak back up to the loft again, Mark would be up still checking out his film and if he wasn't, it wouldn't matter because Mark slept like the dead. But if she woke up, he didn't want her to be alone. He sat on the bed, feeling the mattress sink slightly under him and the ancient bedstead give a creak of protest. From there he safely studied Mimi in her sleep. She looked even younger than she normally did when sleeping. She was still nineteen (old for her age, ha), and wouldn't be twenty until September. She was the same age that April had been when he met her, but in a lot of ways, Mimi was older than she had been. And in some ways, Mimi was younger.

She was nineteen, a baby and middle-aged all at the same time. And she wanted _him_, a twenty-seven year old, washed up hack of a songwriter, and she wanted him. Him, not Benny.

_She has a funny way of showing it,_ he thought to himself, rather cynically, and tore his gaze away from her. His eyes landed on the syringe of heroine, fully loaded and ready to be injected. She hadn't done it. He gingerly picked it up, as if it would fall to dust in his fingers. He wished it would fall to dust in his fingers, it would save him the trouble of getting rid of it. It would be useless to pretend there was no temptation – he was an addict, there was always going to be temptation – but the want was gone. He no longer wanted the euphoria of the high.

Moving with purpose, he stood and took the syringe to the sink, pulling the plunger out, and running water through it, until the heroin was all gone, down the drain. He dropped the syringe bits into the drain tray, incongruous next to the chipped coffee mug and cereal bowls. They'd figure out what to do with it later, but for now he was a man on a mission. He picked up her purse, feeling like he was entering some holy space (all he knew about purses was that you stashed keys and wallets in there, sometimes drugs, and they hurt like hell when you were hit with them).

He unzipped the smaller pocket on the outside and sure enough, there was a tiny ziploc bag of smack. White, he had to give the Man one thing, he knew a quality product. He zipped the purse up again and went to the small bathroom, carefully letting the contents run out of the bag and into the toilet bowl. He watched as it floated through the air, almost seeming to resist gravity, it fell so slowly. Without spending a single second longer looking at it, he pushed the lever and flushed it away to wherever, somewhere it wouldn't hurt Mimi anymore and wouldn't be his rival.

He turned away and pretended that thought never went through his head, slipping the empty ziploc bag into the back pocket of his jeans.

Mimi was awake now, quilt wrapped tightly around her and looking quite miserable. She looked up at Roger with wide brown eyes, only slightly glassy with a remaining fever. "I thought I'd feel better if I sat up, but I still feel like twelve different kinds of shit," she said bluntly.

Sympathy washed over him, and he moved closer. "I thought I'd feel better if I stood on my head, but that was a lot of trouble with no result," he half-joked.

She was able to crack a smile, some of her brilliance showing through the dullness that came with withdrawal. "Did you really stand yourself on your head?" she asked, immediately moving closer.

"In my boxer shorts," he answered, pulling her against him, both arms securely around her. "Or, we tried, anyway. For some not very good reason or another, I thought it would help and even though I'm sure Mark'd had it up to _there_ with me at this point, I insisted and he tried to help me. But I was shaking and… we ended up a sweaty mess on the floor. I swear, I almost froze to death. It's kind of funny now, I guess, but at the time it wasn't at all," he babbled on and on.

"He does put up with a lot of shit from you. I wonder why," she murmured, fingering the hemp necklace around his neck.

"Because let's face it, there is no one who gives shit like me." He wasn't sure if he was joking or serious.

Mimi gave a small sound of amusement, not quite a laugh. There was a long, tense silence. She wanted to say something but probably couldn't find the words. He wasn't going to press. "I need help, Rog," she finally said, quietly.

"I'm helping, baby," he said firmly, but a bit stupidly. He'd gone over this with Mark only a few hours ago, and he didn't feel like doing it again, but it had suddenly become unavoidable.

She laid her hand on his chest. He felt the slight tremble, everything seemed to be amplified in that moment. The silence between them overcame the sounds from the street below, her touch, even through his shirt, became electric, and his skin felt like dynamite. "It might take more than you," she said. "It took more for you, right?"

"It did," he admitted. A feeling akin to defeat rose in his gut, and he did his best to press it back down. It wouldn't be defeat if it was going to get Mimi better. "I'm sorry about running out. I'm here, I promise," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"You can't leave," she said. "It… it fucks me up."

"I know it does, believe me, I know," he said. "We'll figure it out. It'll be okay, I promise. I swear, we'll just… I won't run out, and we'll get through it together, and you'll forget all about smack. I promise," he repeated, over and over. He'd promise anything if it would keep her with him.

_I didn't mean to hurt you  
I'm sorry that i made you cry  
Oh no, I didn't want to hurt you  
I'm just a jealous guy, watch out  
I'm just a jealous guy, look out babe_

Roger was not allowed at the Cat Scratch Club anymore, after a small but rather embarrassing incident involved his fist in the jaw of a man who was tipping Mimi quite a lot for a lap dance. Not that he was sorry he did it, but it was kind of embarrassing when his girlfriend who was only a little under a foot shorter than him was yelling at the top of her voice _up_ at him. Abashed would have been a good word for how that'd made him feel. He'd slept on the futon for a week.

Even though he was no longer technically allowed in the Club, he still picked Mimi up sometimes and walked with her back. Usually he mentioned it before she left for work if he'd come and meet her, but tonight he wanted to surprise her. He approached the Club and found it already shut down for the night. He frowned, and supposed he might've left a little later than usual. He threw his cigarette on the pavement and looked for her. He knew she sometimes took shortcuts on the way home, or maybe she went for a drink with one of the girls she worked with. He was about to turn around and head home to wait for her, when he heard her voice, clear, distinguished, and indignant on the warm night air. "That's too much for a gram!"

"So, do you want it or not?"

"Hand it over." There was no hesitation.

His blood boiled and he could hear his heart beat in his ears. He came around the corner, into the alley across from the Club and the regular dealer – Roger recognized him even in the nearly absent lighting – turned and ran. He reflected vaguely for a split second that he must look every bit as angry as he felt, but then Mimi turned and their eyes locked. All his anger channeled at her at that moment. "Mimi, what are you _doing?_" he demanded.

She floundered for a moment for words, and couldn't come up with anything. Desperation gripped him and he seized her by her upper arms. "Why?" he asked. He could feel the places under each of his fingers where they would probably leave small, purple bruises from how hard he was grasping her arms. He didn't care, if he held onto her, she wasn't going to leave. "Why, why throw away everything we've worked for, _why?_"

Mimi didn't respond, but he felt the tremor of a junkie on the edge, so close to a hit they were practically already experiencing the high. "Leave me alone, Roger," she said.

"So you can do your smack in peace?" he sneered.

"Let me go," she snapped, wriggling against his grip, which only tightened. "I said let me go, you fucker!"

"Mimi, stop!" he yelled. "Forget it, come home with me."

"I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE."

He'd never been the crying type, but he was going to have a hard time avoiding it now. The betrayal cut him so deeply, he felt it in his bones. She'd been going behind his back. How long? There was no telling. Probably at least since July or so. Angel had been in and out of the hospital since then, and it was hard on them all, but Mimi especially, he knew. Was this how she coped? "I'm not going to leave you alone, I told you I wouldn't, remember? You didn't want me to leave."

"I'm changing my mind," she said, reaching up and sinking her nails into his arms the best she could.

He felt it, but it didn't quite register in his brain as pain like it probably should. Her nails were lethal. "Stop it," he said. "Just, just _stop_ it already, I love you, _why_ are you doing this?" he exclaimed, letting go of her arms and taking her face in his hands. He was the last person she wanted to see right now, he could see that much, he felt it. He'd said it, words he'd reserved for her only after he'd fallen asleep, afraid of what she'd say otherwise. With those three little words, his entire soul was bare before her.

"Roger, STOP," she screamed again.

He literally felt his insides drop to the ground, replaced by resentment, insecurity, and jealousy once again. "FINE," he yelled back. "Fine, you know what? Take your fucking smack, and _have fun._" He snatched the baggie of the fine white powder from her hand and dangled it mockingly in front of her, much like she had done with her stash the night she'd come in looking to have her candle lit. "If this is what you love then we're done." He threw it back at her. "_Goodbye._"

He turned and stormed away before he could hurt himself over it anymore or listen to anymore. He heard his name and set his jaw firmly. He wasn't going to turn around and go back. He refused to play second fiddle to a drug, a substance that had once ruled his life and now mocked him. He ignored her plea for him to come back, convincing himself that it was better to not be in the orchestra at all.

_I'm just a jealous guy_


End file.
